open your eyes, boy- I think we are saved

I'm playing handbells with Westside Church of the Nazarene as a favor to my aunt, who informally directs the group. They are one ringer short (sounds like a punchline) for an upcoming performance, so I'm stepping up to the plate, temporarily only. It's been pretty fun, I'm on the bass clef just like I was in college, so it's at least familiar. There's only a few times that I am unable to keep up, so I just abbreviate my part- it really is amazing how the mind can have such amazing physical memory response. And sometimes, it's amazing how it has no physical memory response.

*clunk* go the bells. *grimace* go the other ringers.

So tonight, we had a Mr. Everling, who apparently is the formal director and just shows up to final rehearsals and performances, come in and *clap clap clap* "watch the tempo, remember this section is piano" *gesture at certain bells at certain times and wave a baton* "remember the retard." So that was interesting. And then, halfway through the rehearsal, a homeless man came in the sanctuary. I went from drop dead witty to dumbstruck in seconds; I hate it when I do that. Like, oh crap, head can't do anything but sit here on top of this big clumsy body and hang open. He was muttering, then we got out of him that he was broke and needed a couple of dollars, or some work or some help. My aunt was the only one who actually spoke to him, until the Mr. Everling collected his wits and told the man to come back in the morning when the office was open. I wished to heaven that I had a couple of bucks in my pockets to give the man. But I didn't. I don't even have two dimes to rub together right now. But this guy, he is a guy, just like any other guy. Jesus died for this man, the Spirit groans, and the Father made him with just as much care as he made the Pope. He came to a church for help, and was ultimately turned away, and as he left, whispering began immediately, that he might grab one of the ladies' purses, sitting in the pews, on his way out. I bet none of them have ever had a purse stolen. I've had my bike cut from it's chain and robbed of me when I was already over the line of destitute, and still I wanted to give this man something, anything. Anything but the impression that we wanted nothing to do with him, and he was nothing more than a distraction, an unpleasant distraction amidst our handbell practice. Jesus doesn't give a flying crap about our handbells, our "Now hear the word of the Lord, Dry Bones!" for the old people after their potluck, where there will be plenty to eat. And Mr. Everling pantomimes kicking the guy in the butt to get him out the door after he's gone, and everyone laughs nervously, glad that reality check didn't last longer than 30 seconds.

All I could play were wrong notes for the rest of the night.